


Whiskey in the Jar

by Wunderlass



Series: RIP Roswell [1]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 10:57:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21242966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wunderlass/pseuds/Wunderlass
Summary: For RIPRoswell Day One: masks (and Candy, obviously).





	Whiskey in the Jar

**Author's Note:**

> Kindly beta read by @maxortecho despite her, er, enthusiasm for Michael

Maria doesn’t look up from the table she’s clearing down as she says the words. She recognizes the footsteps, even if it annoys her that she does. At least it allows her to modulate her tone, keeping it light, keeping her back to the incomer. 

If she didn’t recognize the footsteps she’d be wary, retreating to the bar where her shotgun is hidden. Strangers after closing are never a good thing, especially after a busy night like tonight. Halloween brings the strange ones out.

“You always say that,” Guerin dismisses. He seems to take her words—or maybe her tone—as an invitation, continuing his path to the bar. He throws himself onto one of the stools and sprawls out, legs akimbo, one corner of his mouth tilted like its threatening to turn into a smirk.

“That’s ‘cause you keep turning up after closing.” She gives up on the table, collecting a bunch of glasses before crossing to the bar herself.

He waits for her to reach him before he leans across to grab the closest bottle. The good whiskey. Always the good whiskey.

“Nuh-uh,” she says, swooping in before he can reach it. “You know the rules. No service unless you’re in costume.”

“I am in costume,” he protests. “I’m an alien!”

“Yeah. I definitely remember ET’s iconic cowboy boots.” She doesn’t release her grip on the whiskey. “A costume involves you coming as something you _aren’t_.”

He grunts, then turns his attention to the rest of the room. Her staff have done a good job of cleaning up before she sent them home, but there are areas she hasn’t gotten to yet. That includes the pool table, where a costume mask has been discarded upside down, its blank inner side the only part visible.

Guerin’s seen it too. It twitches on the green baize, levitating a few inches, before shooting across the room into his outstretched hand. 

He turns it over, raises an eyebrow at the little green man face staring up at him. “See?” he says, flourishing it so she can see it before he fastens it to the top of his head, elastic tucked beneath his chin. “Alien.”

She hands him the bottle wordlessly, flustered by his easy display of his powers.

The way his fingers curl around the bottle only fluster her more. They’re strangely elegant for a man’s hands, less battered and greasy than they have any right to be for belonging to a mechanic. They should be oil-stained and calloused, but they always look clean when he turns up at the Pony.

He raises the head of the bottle to his mouth, takes the stopper between his teeth with a glint in his eyes that says he knows she’s watching. Pulls it loose and drops it onto the counter, and none of this is enticing. None of it. It’s some stupid display of machismo that she’d ban anybody else for even considering.

In a moment he’ll bring the bottle to his mouth, pucker his lips just enough, tip his head back to expose the curve of his throat. She’ll be able to watch him swallow, and the thought of him in that position makes her want to swallow too.

Stupid face. Stupid hands. It’s not fair how a simple act can have an effect like this on her. 

She doesn’t let it get that far, slamming a clean glass down in front of him. “No more health code violations, Guerin. I’ve gotta sell that stuff to other customers.”

He almost slips and lets his grin break through, the tip of his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. Instead he shrugs and dutifully pours some of the whiskey into the glass. 

“How come you’re still tidying up?” he asks. “Can’t you just cast a spell to magic it all back to normal?”

He’s referring to her costume. Tonight, she’s Rochelle from The Craft, in a white shirt and black pleated skirt, and she thinks the reference has passed most of the customers by. Apparently not Guerin, and he seems appreciative of the look too.

“My specialty is turning men into frogs,” she replies. “I don’t use my powers for patriarchal bullshit. Besides, _you’re_ the one with telekinesis.”

He knocks back the whiskey with a wink, and she can’t help rolling her eyes at that. Then, one by one, glasses around the room lift into the air, floating across the room in a strange, silent procession. 

Maria backs up against the wall, her heart in her throat at the sight of them all magician’s apprenticing their way towards her, but all they do is set down gently on the bar, lining up in rows.

This is no party trick. This is a skill. This is real power.

Guerin is watching her reaction carefully, the earlier glint dimmed into something graver. Like he’s waiting for her to finally ban him for real.

Seeing is different to simply knowing. Seeing is believing. Seeing is having the air knocked out of her lungs.

He tips his empty glass towards her. “Trick or treat?”

She blinks. It’s just Guerin. Nothing has changed. She knows more about him now, and isn’t that a good thing? The mask has come off and he’s showing her who he really is.

She unglues her tongue from the roof of her mouth. Picks up the whiskey bottle and pours him another. “Do you think you can get the cobwebs down without me having to use the ladder?” She’s bright and breezy, like him flaunting his powers is no big deal. 

All the graveness has vanished, replaced by a knowing determination. She feels like she’s passed some kind of test as he nods an easy affirmative in answer to her question. 

“Sure. I can have this place back to its normal decrepit self before midnight. You gonna clear my tab in return?”

It feels like the heat of the alcohol is sliding down her own throat when she responds, pooling further down than her stomach. “Maybe. Or I was thinking there’s a warm bed here for you. Since you shouldn’t be driving drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Not on the whiskey. Not yet,” she tells him, picking up a bottle of her personal poison. This time, his gaze is on her hand, tracking its movement as she lifts the tequila to her mouth. Tips her head back. Takes a long drag, letting its warmth mimic the sensations Guerin elicits in her.

She meets his stare. Removes the bottle and licks her lips.

“There’s plenty for you to be drinking in tonight,” she says, backing towards the door that leads through to the kitchen, and then to her apartment.

Guerin doesn’t need telling twice. He’s scrambling off his stool after her, like a man who’s been wandering the desert for days and is now desperate for water. She’s happy to oblige.


End file.
